


Raise Your Hands

by sendal



Series: I Will Wait for You [3]
Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Fuck Or Die, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, One day a happy ending maybe, Sandra writes fanfic, alpha!Phil, omega!Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 17:53:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sendal/pseuds/sendal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stuck in a hospital, Omega!Clint tries to keep his defenses up against Alpha!Phil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raise Your Hands

Clint's immediate future is in the hands of a bureaucrat. A smooth, bland, impersonal bureaucrat who looks like he should be working in an insurance agency instead of wielding a gun and slinking around terrorist bunkers.

Not that they're in a bunker now. The army hospital room is bright and airy and has many amenities his little cement room lacked, such as electricity and indoor plumbing. He’s grateful for that. He’s grateful he’s not dead, or carried off to parts unknown as a prisoner to whatever Trick had planned for him.

To be fair to bureaucrat Phil Coulson, he’s been anything but impersonal when kissing Clint's shoulder or sucking his cock or knotting him. The memory of his hot breath and strong hands makes Clint squirm. Or maybe it's this damn heat. Day three and he's just as horny and uncomfortable as day one. The hospital sheet chafes against his skin and he feels feverish one minute, ice cold the next. He wishes he had the courage to bash his head into the wall and knock himself for however long it took to get over this.

"You okay?" Coulson asks from the doorway. He comes and goes at regular intervals. One of the nurses had said he's taken over a corner of the waiting room lounge and turned into his mini-office. At some point he'd changed from his paramilitary outfit into a well-fitting gray suit with a thin black tie. His leather shoes probably cost more than Clint spends on a year's worth of clothing.

Coulson looks like a model in a business magazine. Wanted: Bland Middle Manager.

He looks like a bureaucrat.

Clint hates bureaucrats. But he loves this Alpha's body. Or, rather, his traitorous Omega hormones can't get enough of his cock and tongue and those kisses, sweet and hot. There should be a law against the way Coulson's kisses almost make him feel safe and comfortable. 

The bureaucrat steps closer to the bed. Clint realizes he's been staring at him but not answering.

"I'm fine," he lies, arms crossed over his chest in a defensive way that even he can recognize. He uncrosses them again. They've at least discontinued the IV, which was a small but painful annoyance. He's still stuck using crutches until the cast off his ankle comes off. The sharp ache there is being kept at bay by painkillers, although he can tell he's due for a new dose soon. 

Coulson's gaze flits over the Clint's groin. "Can I help you with anything?"

Every time he asks, Clint wants to throw something at him. Goddamn biology. Goddamn genetic weakness. If Clint's hindbrain and cock had their way, he'd be bent over the mattress already, offering himself up like the whore Barney always said he was. There is something fundamentally wrong in a universe that made Clint Barton an Omega instead of the Alpha he was meant to be. That took away his parents and left him with an older brother who had no interest in caring for him. 

Just thinking about Barney makes his stomach turn over. He can hear the taunts now: What do you need, sissy boy? Need a fat one? I’ll find you one, and make some fast cash, too.

He's simultaneously tempted to offer himself up to Coulson and also vomit all over his ridiculously expensive shoes.

An orderly knocks on the open door. "Food and Nutrition. Here's your lunch."

If there's anything further guaranteed to make Clint puke, it's chunks of red Jello and wilted salad in shiny white bowls. Who thinks this stuff up? Both bowls flank the covered main dish. He makes no move to uncover the mystery food. Let Coulson do it. He bets himself five dollars that Coulson will succumb to his curiosity within sixty seconds. They both stare at it.

"I've seen fresher salads in the desert," Coulson says.

It's one of the few hints he's dropped about himself. Clint knows some of the big details: Phil works for the government. He rescues people kidnapped by crazy ass terrorists like Trick. His organization has the clout to get Clint into an army hospital. But Clint knows next to nothing about his background or history or favorite movies or the toothpaste he prefers.

Not that toothpaste really matters. But an Alpha with bad breath is worse than no Alpha at all.

Not that Clint will ever smell Coulson’s minty fresh mouth again after Coulson gets the answers to the questions he's been asking.

Thirty-seven seconds pass. Coulson lifts the tray to reveal watery mashed potatoes and a sad slab of ham. It's just as well. Clint has trouble keeping food down when he's in heat. He's not missing anything special here.

"Let's go to the cafeteria," Coulson says.

Clint gives him a dirty look. "Sure."

"Why not? You're getting along on those crutches pretty well."

"You can't take an Omega in heat to a public place to eat."

Coulson raises an eyebrow. "I never figured you were a stickler for rules."

Fine. If Coulson wants to inspire a riot, Clint's up for the challenge. He pulls on a flimsy bathrobe, grabs the crutches, and hobbles down the hall with Coulson clearing any potential obstacles. None of the nurses try to stop them. The hike leaves him more winded than he'd expect. The elevator is unexpectedly confining but he keeps his gaze on the mirrored door and tells himself he's not clammy, or claustrophobic, or about to freak out in any way. He feels ridiculously overheated, and his stomach is churning because, hello, parading around in public is never a good idea when your pheromones stink like his does.

The bright, busy cafeteria grids to an absolute halt when Clint enters, or so it seems to his hypersensitive nerves. Conversations don't actually stop, and no one points an accusing finger his way, but he sees more than a few askance glances and picks up on some muttering. Coulson is either oblivious or determined to ignore any fuss. He grabs a pink plastic tray for both of them and steers Clint toward the serving lines.

"The grill selections aren't bad," Coulson says blandly. "The soup was good yesterday."

Clint ignores the soup. The chef's special is mashed potatoes, fried chicken and brown gravy. He adds apple pie and a bottle of lemonade. Coulson selects a Greek salad and bottle of water. Not just a bureaucrat, but a health nut, too.

At a round white table by the window, Clint pokes at his fried chicken and wishes he'd gotten a vegetable or two. He feels his face warm under stares from a nearby table. Every Alpha in the cafeteria can smell his reek. He wonders how fast hospital security would respond if someone got fresh and he punched them in the face.

Coulson says, "Have you thought about what happens when you get discharged?"

"I go home."

"Someplace where you can get around on crutches?"

Clint pokes at his chicken. "Sure."

Coulson lifts an eyebrow. "At a transient hotel with a broken elevator?"

"You been spying on my living conditions?" Clint asks garrulously.

"We did a background check on you. Standard procedure."

"I can take care of myself." Clint bites down on adding that he's been doing it for a long, long time. Sure, the hotel is a shithole, but when you make your living hustling pool or doing odd jobs or sometimes occasionally stealing from assholes, the Ritz doesn't exactly fling open its doors for you. Things could be worse. He could be sleeping rough in parks or abandoned buildings or under bridges in winter. He bets Coulson lives in a perfectly nice apartment in a perfectly good building with neighbors who don't scream at each other all night and hallways that aren't littered with dirty hypodermics.

He hasn't really thought about whether the manager has kept his room for him, or how he's going to get up and down the staircase, or what he's going to do for money or food. Nausea swells up his throat and he swallows hard on the taste of bile.

"Are you all right?" Coulson asks, leaning forward. "You look green."

Clint pushes away the tray. "I'm not hungry."

Coulson looks unhappy. "I'm sorry. I'm not doing this right."

It helps if Clint focuses on Coulson's eyes and nothing else. If he imagines, for the tiniest shred of a minute, that Coulson really does care and is not just doing his job. Around them, hospital staff come and go but he pretends it's just the two of them, by the windows overlooking a blooming garden, on a lunch date because Coulson likes him for who he is and not what he wants. 

"Doing what right?" Clint asks.

Coulson doesn't shrink back from Clint's gaze. "Discuss your future living situation. Invite you to come to New York City and get a fresh start."

NYC. He's never been there, knows it only from movies and TV, but the name conjures up subways and skyscrapers, ceaseless traffic and noise. It's no place for a small town drifter. Coulson must know that. 

Clint asks, "And stay where? In your apartment? Your personal fucktoy?"

"No!" Coulson's blandness breaks for a moment into an appalled expression. "Why would you think that?"

Barney used to tell Clint about Omegas who end up as kept prizes in fancy cages. "And the law don't help you if you escape," he'd added. Clint has no firsthand knowledge but there are plenty of lurid headlines in tabloids and trash TV shows that make him suspect there's some kind of truth to it. He doesn't think Coulson is the kind of Alpha who'd try to hem Clint in or keep him isolated, but there's no way to be sure. 

"New York City isn't cheap," Clint points out. "You may not have noticed with your fancy background check, but I'm a little low on funds right now."

Coulson puts down his fork and pushes away his tray. He's only eaten half his salad. Clint feels a little guilty for turning him off his food. One of them should be able to eat. He tries some of his apple pie. The apples are too sour. Sweat prickles on the back of his neck and the feeling of flush spreads along his face and arms.

"You'd stay somewhere else," Coulson insists. "Short term arrangement until you settle in and get a job. I can cover it."

It’s becoming hard to concentrate. "What kind of job do you think I'd get?" 

"What do you want to do?"

He can't imagine himself in any kind of job or career other than the circus, and that's no life anymore. He can't figure out why Coulson would go the effort of arranging an apartment or whatever and not just lock him up in a cell somewhere until he tells them about Trick. 

He can't think of much, actually, because ideas seem to be skittering out from under his grasp, flying off in all directions. His brain is dissolving under the acid of desire, and he needs Coulson to hold him down and cool the fire before there's nothing left of him but ash.

"Clint?" Coulson asks, worried.

"We need to get out of here," Clint gasps.

He grabs his crutches and swings upright. Coulson tells him to slow down, he'll get a wheelchair, but Clint barrels toward the door and down the hall with skittering energy and frantic need. A stranger reaches out a helping hand and he snarls, outraged, because he's not a fucking invalid but he needs fucking right now, as surely as he needs oxygen in his blood and air in his shrinking lungs. 

"Clint, wait!" That's Coulson, at his right elbow, trying to simultaneously keep Clint from collapsing off the crutches and clear a path through the crowded lobby. "We're only a minute away from your room. Do you understand? One minute."

An Alpha minute is a lifetime to an Omega. Clint doesn't know if he can survive that long. He wants Coulson to throw him to the tile floor and take him in front of everyone. It wouldn't be the first time there'd be witnesses to his humiliating needs and biology. It wouldn't be the smallest group, either, and the memory of that makes his knees go wobbly.

"Sir, here," someone says loudly. 

A wheelchair appears. Coulson's hands, cool and soothing, grab Clint and steer him into it. Considering the way the world is spinning and tilting, sitting down is probably a good thing. The lobby is a kaleidoscope of painful colors and noises that don't make sense. He barely notices the elevator doors closing and the car rising.

Coulson kneels down to eye level. "Thirty seconds, Clint. You can hold on."

It's just the two of them. Coulson must have chased off any help. Clint wants to thank him for that, but his chest is so tight he can only force out words with the highest priority.

"My fault," he says. "Not yours."

" It's no one's fault. Hang in there.," Coulson says urgently. 

He can't breathe. Can't see past the black spots crowding his vision. Coulson's voice says, "Oh, hell," and the elevator lurches to a stop. Clint feels himself lifted from the chair, maneuvered to the wall, pinned against it by Coulson's weight and width and lithe body. Any instinct to fight the manhandling is countered by a more powerful wave of submission that makes him pliant and relieved that Coulson is going to fix this.

"You're okay," Coulson says, kissing and licking the back of Clint's neck. "You hear me? I'm going to fucking take you right here and you're going to be fine."

There’s nothing for Clint to hold on to so he braces his hands on the smooth wall. Coulson drops his pants and yanks aside Clint’s bathrobe and gown. Wetness leaks out of Clint, warm and pungent, as Coulson’s hardness nudges at his hole and begins a slow, searing slide into him. Coulson’s hands roam across his hot skin with the coolness of a cold lake on a hot summer day. They anchor him even though he feels like he’s flying. 

“You don’t know what you do to me,” Coulson mutters, his teeth nipping at the edge of Clint’s ear. “Every damn minute.”

Clint’s palms slide on the elevator wall. “I’m falling.”

“You’re not going anywhere," Coulson growls.

Coulson’s cock fills him up, stretches him wide, makes him shudder and thump forward and oh, yes, there’s the knot, swelling up to a ridiculous size, it’s impossible that he can take it, that he won’t be torn apart and shredded from the inside out. But fear is a thrill all its own. A challenge to take on. He’ll keep Coulson’s knot longer than any other Omega he’s had before. He’ll ruin him, so that Coulson remembers him to his dying day.

It’s appalling, really, how much he wants and needs this, and how much he’s going to miss it when it’s gone. His vision whites out as the climax rips through him, his heart thundering so loud he imagines thunder over a corn field, the accompany lightning slicing open every ecstatic nerve.

When he can think and breathe again, he feels Coulson pressed against him in a protective shell of heat and safety. The knot keeps them tied together.

“You okay?” Coulson asks, breathing hard.

“Peachy,” Clint manages to say. “You?”

“I’m just hoping there’s no camera,” Coulson replies, with a shaky laugh.

Clint whips his gaze upward, alarmed, but Coulson soothes him with kisses. “Sorry. There’s no camera. Let me tell them there’s no need to call the Fire Department and rescue us.”

Coulson fumbles for the phone receiver in the elevator panel. Clint listens to his tone but not his words. Professional, even under stress. Clint doesn’t think he could ever be that way. He loses his temper too easily, gets prickly when he knows he shouldn’t. He’s too impetuous. He’s a loose cannon, someone at the circus once said, when Clint was too young to understand. The only cannons there were the kind they used to launch acrobats across the arena into a safety net. 

He has no safety net against Coulson.

“No one’s going to bother us.” Coulson hangs up the phone. “We have all the time in the world.”

“Oh, good,” Clint replies. His good leg is beginning to tire from supporting his weight, and his bad ankle is buzzing with pain. He's still itching and hot but no longer frantic. He rests his cheek against the cool wall and shifts around the keen pressure of Coulson’s knot. It is intimate and uncomfortable but also satisfying in a way he can’t put into words. 

Coulson says, “Do you want to try sitting down? I mean, I could sit and you could be on top of me.”

“Hell, no.”

“I can make it work,” Coulson insists.

“No,” Clint says.

Silence from behind him. They’re so close that Clint can almost feel Coulson’s rapid heartbeat through the shared surface of their skin. Ice prickles over him. Alphas don’t like when Omegas say no. Omegas have no right at all to say no, Barney would say. Certainly Clint’s paid for insolence over the years. He’s made a huge mistake here, thinking Coulson’s the kind of man who would tolerate disagreement, but he can’t make himself take it back. 

“You know what would be nice about now?” Coulson says. “A tall cold beer.”

Clint’s almost sure that means Coulson’s not mad. But he tests the waters anyway. “What kind?”

“I don’t know. I don’t drink beer.”

“Why not?”

Coulson kisses Clint’s neck. He definitely doesn’t sound mad. “Never liked the taste.”

Clint doesn’t tell him that he agrees. He turns his head and eyes the wheelchair doubtfully. They’ll probably end up crashing to the floor and severely injuring themselves. But his good leg feels wobbly and he is suddenly, desperately tired.

“I can do it,” Coulson says quietly.

Clint nods quickly, before he can change his mind.

Coulson reaches down, drags the wheelchair closer with one hand, and positions it carefully. He steps down on the wheel locks so it doesn’t skitter away. More fumbling and careful positioning. Slowly, carefully, Coulson peels Clint from the wall and holds him like he’s made of glass. Coulson lowers himself and takes Clint in his lap and Clint thinks about Santa Claus guys at shopping centers with kids on their laps every Christmas. It’s not actually a comforting image. And this is not very comfortable, either, except it eases the strain on Clint’s leg and back, and Coulson’s arm hooked around his waist makes him feel wanted.

“I saw this in the Kama Sutra,” Coulson says.

“Is that a movie?”

A soft huff of laughter. “It should be.”

It can’t be easy for Coulson to have all of Clint’s weight on his lap. Clint doesn’t actually want to break the man, bureaucrat or not. He tries put his good leg down to support some weight but Coulson stills him.

“It’s okay. Just rest.”

Clint wishes he could see Coulson’s face. Instead he has nothing to look at but the control panel, which shows they are stopped between the third and fourth floors. He closes his eyes and feels himself swaying toward sleep, but that’s not a good idea. He’d probably tumble sideways and break Coulson’s penis and rip up his own insides. Omega tabloids are full of tragic stories like that.

“They’re going to need to clean this elevator,” Clint murmurs.

“I’m sure they have plenty of supplies.”

“It’s inconvenient.”

Coulson rubs Clint’s back. “It’s part of the job.”

Clint thinks that maybe Coulson’s talking about being an Alpha. How you have to be ready for things like knotting in an elevator because you never know when your Omega have a life or death fuck crisis. How you might have to rearrange your whole life in New York so that your penniless, jobless Omega could have a roof over his head. But that’s still all a ploy. Coulson wants to know about Trick. Once he gets those answers, he’s on to his next job and the next needy, helpless Omega.

Water prickles at his eyes. He tells himself it’s the harsh light of the elevator. He concentrates on his breathing and the impossible fullness of the knot, and is thankful that Coulson doesn’t attempt any further conversation.

Maybe he does sleep, just a little, dragged down by exhaustion and hormones, because the next thing he knows the doors are opening, and there’s an orderly waiting with another wheelchair, and the knot has deflated. Strong hands lift Clint from Coulson’s lap and settle him elsewhere. Clumsy, ashamed, he cooperates but keeps his eyes closed. He doesn’t want to see the sympathy or pity in anyone’s eyes. Movement, motion, some questions he doesn’t answer. Coulson answers for him.

The bed linens have been changed while they were gone. The fresh ones smell like detergent but are cool against his face as he burrows against the pillow. 

"Rest, okay?" Coulson's hand rests on Clint's cheek. "I'm going to go get some new clothes and take a shower. I'll be back soon."

Clint nods wordlessly. He doesn't trust himself to speak.

By the time Coulson returns, Clint is long gone.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for the kudos and I hope you enjoy this part. More to come eventually. Titles from Mumford and Sons. All feedback appreciated.


End file.
